


Idle Curiosity

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Smitcoin challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 03:17:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7741303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t that she has failed to notice that the inspector is a good-looking man--she does have eyes, after all--but sitting across from him, drinks in hand and a new understanding hanging between them, it is the first time she feels it as more than an idle curiosity. </p>
<p>(Part of the Rewatch SmitCoin Chronicles)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Idle Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> So it's smit--well, smut, really--for Raisins and Almonds this week!

It isn’t that she has failed to notice that the inspector is a good-looking man--she does have eyes, after all--but sitting across from him, drinks in hand and a new understanding hanging between them, it is the first time she feels it as more than an idle curiosity. Perhaps it is the confirmation that his marriage is not a happy one. Not a terribly kind reflection on Phryne’s morals, but somehow still preferable to the other option.

(She has a strict policy about married men and their wives’ knowing consent, and even if she had it from the mysterious Mrs. Robinson, Phryne’s not sure she would cross that line. Jack Robinson is a good man, and Phryne has never tolerated leading good men astray for a lark.)

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes.

“Pardon, Miss Fisher?”

She hadn’t intended to say it out loud, but from the heat in his eyes she has. And really, there’s only one way forward from here.

“I said, Jack, that I don’t lead honourable men astray.”

He lowers his glass to the desk, a soft click against the wood, and looks at her with deliberation. Would he bring that same attention to detail to the boudoir? Would his hands glide across her skin, would his kisses taste of whiskey? She longs to find out, finds the thought distracting her at the most inopportune times. She wishes to sate her curiosity, lay the query to rest; from the look in his eye, she may have a chance to do so.

“What about dishonourable men?” he asks, voice low and smooth.

She smirks, runs her tongue along her lips invitingly. “Well, dishonourable men get an invitation to dinner.”

“Say, eight?” he says, with the air of a man used to wielding his authority.

Oh, this will be fun. She stands, sashays to the door. Instead of leaving, though, she locks it and then moves to lock the other. Then she perches on his desk, parts her thighs so he is between her legs; he leans back in his chair, regarding her appraisingly.

“How about a sample now? To see if,” her eyes flick down to the crotch of his trousers, already slightly tented, “dinner is to your taste?”  

He stands, crowding closer so she finds herself leaning backwards, braced by her arms. Then he kisses her, and she tries not to taste the sadness on his lips. One large hand comes up, fondles her breast, catches her nipple and tweaks it with just the right pressure for the sensation to shoot to her groin. She arches backwards, feels the solid press of the wood between her legs, sighs as she reaches up to grip Jack’s tie. The silk is better quality than she would have expected from a detective-inspector, smooth beneath her stroking fingers.

His fingers move down, skimming her blouse, teasing the waistband of her skirt, seeking the buttons that will grant him access. Phryne shows him, sighs when he proves adept at undoing women’s clothes without looking. His lips are on her neck now, his fingers beneath the silk of her knickers; when he finds what he seeks she grips his tie tighter and whimpers.  

He’s focused on her pleasure, which she expects from her lovers, and knows exactly how to give it, which she does not. There is pleasure to be found in the act of  teaching a man, but this is exquisite. She hooks her legs behind his to pull him closer, breathes in the scent she has begun to think of as Jack’s, lets his fingers take her ever higher. It’s low and pulsing, making her want more of him. She aches to feel him inside her, filling her; just when she thinks she will have to beg, he slips a finger inside.

It’s not enough. She pushes back, feeling a second finger, then a third, pump into her. It’s not enough. She’s so close, she can feel her muscles contracting; grasps at his tie, his jacket, the buttons of his waistcoat; grinds against his fingers; bites back a wail that will reveal their activities to the station at large. It’s not _enough_. She’s so close, his thumb on her clit, and it’s almost enough, she just needs him deeper, harder, so close--

And then he’s gone.

Her eyes snap open, sees him cleaning his fingers on his handkerchief.

“Jack?”

Her voice is weak and reedy, her thighs clenching around the empty space where he had been only seconds before, and he shakes his head.

“A marriage is still a marriage, Miss Fisher,” he says, regret lacing his tone.

 

Phryne flopped back into her pillows with a groan. Not even in her fantasies could Jack be anything but what he was. She moved her fingers--too small to be a stand-in for his--half-heartedly, but the moment was gone. There would be no release tonight.

Damn the man.


End file.
